


Visiting the Ruins of his Church

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubbles, M/M, Size Kink, dub con, religious banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Under him, it will all turn to motherfucking dust.” When you talk to Gamzee, his pan shivers in disgust. “Righteous fucking stardust.”</p>
<p>“Bro, there’s motherfucking him and also motherfucking-” He stops when you put one finger to his mouth, though he doesn’t give you any real acquiescence. Where he comes from, you shed blood before you do anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting the Ruins of his Church

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bonus Round one for HSWC 2014.

“I ain’t being to tell you again.” Gamzee shows you the roots of his teeth and snarls. “It’s motherfucking there.”

It’s round in his pan, and blurred like old dreams that few people remember. It’s not that way through distance of time, either, since the rest of him is so quick-veined and living.

“Under him, it will all turn to motherfucking dust.” When you talk to Gamzee, his pan shivers in disgust. “Righteous fucking stardust.”

“Bro, there’s motherfucking him and also motherfucking-” He stops when you put one finger to his mouth, though he doesn’t give you any real acquiescence. Where he comes from, you shed blood before you do anything else.

“I attended motherfucking church. I started picking up some riotous noise, there.” Your finger is still so close to his teeth, and you know that he didn’t learn any prayers through so much as ruins. His pan is open to you and, in the susceptible bubbles, you’ve walked over sand under two moons and looked out over a deserted ocean. You wandered through his wigglerhood, moving on a loop.

Gamzee turns his head towards you. “The truest of motherfucking gospel ain’t what’s to be experienced through motherfucking pages.” He pushes you away by the wrist, the bones of his hands moving tensely against the underside of his skin, His eyes turning dark. “It’s about where it beats on your motherfucking pumpbiscuit.”

He sneers and tilts his head. He can sometimes make the innards of the tunnels you’ve carved shiver around you, but only momentarily. Right at this moment, the surface of the bubble is still dark and fades out into the void. But, there’s a growl thrumming in his squawkblister that makes the silence distort. You do know where the holes are in his pan.

You smile and never need to bare teeth. You take assistance by keeping it calm and willing, docile beneath the press of your thumb against a horn base. In contrast, the bard’s evangelizing leaves open wounds. It should, in contrast to yours.

There’s a shake to his fingers, wrapped tight around your wrist. “Let me tell the noise about how I never got my need on for your kinda noise. When I was a little motherfucker who needed nothing but the prayer what he said when it motherfucking came to morning, and the wicked elixir that felt sweet on his mouthtwitcher as he looked on some fuckin’ miraculous colors. I didn’t need no scripture, then, to know what was truly righteous in my bloodpusher. Then when I looked on motherfucking heresies, it still didn’t mean nothing, ‘cause my knowing of everything cracked and left motherfucking nothing except fuckin’ holes.” Outside in the void, something almost too incomprehensible to fathom floats by. You usually ignore them but Gamzee says “look at that. Fuckin’ bitchtits.”

A moment ago, his horns were tilted towards you. He’s a few inches shorter, so they spiked belligerently towards your eyeline. As he watches the thing float, head turned, those horns curve off to the side.

“There’s motherfucking value in having lines to draw ‘round noise, brother,” You say. “Rules can bring you steps to put your foot ‘pon when you have no motherfucking direction. You should never have had to do all that shit.”

That’s a lie, obviously. Everything he has done, he had to do.

“But it’s just motherfucking nothing.” Gamzee never uses his chucklevoodoos to speak, so his voice is at once too loud and too thin. “That’s the fucking point what I’m to be getting at. There’s nothing. ‘Cause it’s too motherfucking big. Beyond the hemospectrum. That’s why they bleed in harmony.”

You think of the princess assembling her army and there are some points that you can’t refute.

“Fuckin’ harmonious. The shit that got me to know on this wasn’t even troll. It was this fuckin’ hornless space mammal that let me get my know on. And they don’t matter none, but neither does a troll’s blood. Not even if it’s bright as motherfucking stardust.”

He smirks. You don’t bother telling him that there isn’t any point to most of his teeth.

“But that’s why you don’t mean shit.” You both let the silence win for a moment. You always hold your rage still and quiet. It’s a ball of flame, but there’s no untoward burns on you or anyone else. Gamzee has flame all over his hands and all over his insides. “You just motherfucking follow. Knowing how to fuckin’ get your look on words is for subpar jokers ruled unfunny.”

You hold your rage still and use his, instead. This would probably not have been so difficult, even after sweeps of honing your skills. There are so many places where he’s raw and shivering, and you run your mental fingers over them at your leisure. As long as he goes out there to do what needs to be done.

Your shape prickles in the instant before he sinks his claws into your shoulders. He presses his gangly, pointed frame against yours and you can still hear a constant, bubbling growl. You don’t growl, even though you could, deep in the recesses of your throat.

“Motherfucker! Do you get your notion on that...” Gamzee’s words just tail off into rumbling. But you know where he’s suspended.

You’re adept at controlling your own ghost so when he sighs and grinds against you, you don’t react. You focus, instead, on the points of his claws and the way his pan is, right now. As he breathes, the bubble seems to shift in and out in the same rhythm. He doesn’t have the same kind of discipline as you do.

“Tell me what you’re thinking on!” He pushes you to the floor of the bubble, where the shadows move underneath. Striking a blow inside him, there’s a blunt, petulant satisfaction. From the hard bone of your shoulderblades through to the skin against your clothes, you take care to feel the jolt. “Like what you always do.”

Before he touches your clothes, Gamzee takes off his own. He does this swiftly until his shirt catches around his horns. It will be a while before they slow down, but their growing still takes him by surprise. He grits his teeth as his eyes are hidden, and he swears underneath his breath and the bubble doesn’t reflect it. You can easily wait, even when he’s naked and shifting against you.

It tears against his horns and he lets it drift to the ground, sinking into the shadows. He’s all gristle and bone, his eyes flaring red. He slides his hand underneath the hem of your shirt and you feel his pulse through his fingertips. Where he straddles you, his bulge has slipped out of his sheath and you watch it twist against the fabric of your pants.

The slender length of it wriggles unimpeded, the tip of it trying to curl around his arm. He pulls his hand back, shaking in his own anticipation, glistening with sweat.

He tugs back the hem of your pants and you let your bulge slip free. You feel him there, wet, slick and open, and you slide up into him in one movement. Despite a fully open sheath, you manage to fill him, completely.

Gamzee shifts to adjust around you, shutting his eyes, his pan blanking a little. He stares over you and into the wall like he’s looking straight through it. But this bubble doesn’t shift, and, he would only be able to see the filmy skin of any other bubble floating out there.

You’ve been silent for a long time, so you let your question slip mildly into his pan. “What kind of miraculous events do you see to be happening out there, brother?” Earlier, his pan had been in a much more fractious state but now the tension hits much lower. Much lower than faith and any kind of heretical notion.

“I can see motherfucking jokes all round,” he says. He rocks gently around your bulge. You’re too much for him to move more actively, although his thighs are still clamped around your hips. “Fuckin’ rainbows spill across the void like…heh.”

That could be either a dirty joke or a violent one. “Fucking jokers, too. Fucking jokers out there.” Gamzee muses, but he can’t bring his pan further. You think for a moment, that you might shimmer into some memory of his. He grips your hips, digging in his claws and spilling a little blood, and you’ll keep hold of the marks he makes for a little while. 

“As I said, bro, it’s bigger than the fucking bible,” he says, with a constricted laugh. He gives a writhe down through to his hips and he’s slick enough inside, now, that you can move. He’s still alive and growing, so you know that he’s going to come soon. “And the motherfucking gods. Fuckin’ all being there, regardless a’ time and space. Some motherfuckers can get their hear on their whispers and my hearducts don’t got that motherfucking privilege but…”

Gamzee pauses, arching his back and giving a whine. It spirals and ends up in a loud cry, causing the bubble to shudder. The release of smooth, cool fluid spills out between the two of you, staining his thighs. He slumps forward, his horns twin points again. His arms shaking, he rests his hands on your abdomen.

Then he says “They’re getting their peep on into the bubble, sometimes.” He rolls himself off you and settles on the floor. “I don’t get time.”


End file.
